George is a storyteller. He also takes photographs. His pictures of our 2014 season don't tell the story of Meadow Lark. Rather, they tell a story—George's story.
Stepping onto Bella early in the season, George arrived with a fresh palate. He saw things that we never saw, or never paused to consider. He captured moments that were fleeting—the bubbling lattice that works its way across the cast iron pan full of frying squash blossoms—and moments that were there for all to see, but went unnoticed. A knapsack, perpetually perched on the driver's seat, quietly greeted every passerby; but its smile was never reciprocated until George revealed it to us.
When George is with us at Meadow Lark, he is listening to the music in his head. But he doesn't sing, so no one knows his soundtrack. He tunes in with all his senses. The crackling of leeks dropped into hot oil draws him to the stove; the smell of wood smoke has him rounding the bus, to the grill. George likes to immerse himself in his subject—to get into the pot of peas, and enveloped by smoke. His lens steams up. The next morning, whiffs of smoldering oak lift off his camera. His appetite brings him to his chair, to pause, observe, and taste. We prepare for him a 45th plate.
Sometimes George is content in between—when he photographs neither the food nor the table, but intimate, deeply personal, stolen moments. These are the moments that weave their way in and out of our summer. They are the threads that connect our days—and us. Our guests rarely witness these moments. Often we don't, either. We are endlessly grateful to George for his generosity—his time, attention, and care. The photographs throughout these pages are his.
Thank you, George, for giving us your story, and your music.